"Dress yourself. I will go!" he said, sharply; and then, after seeing her fly away towards her room, he retreated to his own, to don heavy cloak, hat, and rapier, for he had not yet undressed for the night. When, after some moments, he returned to the salon, his wife, in her heavy pélisse and hood, with muff under her arm, was standing in front of the still open cabinet, looking at the bottles within. At last, from among them, she took one that was half filled with clear liquid. Fixing its cork in tightly, she slipped the flask into her muff, and turned to Claude.
"I am ready now. How long you were!" she said.
They passed together out of their rooms, through the dark passage, and down the stairs. It was scarcely yet midnight. The front doors of the house were still unlocked, and the concièrge was just reflecting on bed.
"How shall we go?" whispered Deborah, as they stepped into the frozen night.
"It may be possible to find a coach. Otherwise, we must walk."
They had gone but twenty yards up the street when, luckily enough, an empty vehicle, which had just left a party of roystering nobles at a gambling-house, came rattling towards them. Claude called out to the driver, who stopped on hearing his voice.
"A louis d'or if you get us to the palace in ten minutes," cried young de Mailly.
The coachman opened his eyes. "We shall do it in seven, Monseigneur," he said, eagerly.
Claude opened the door and Deborah sprang in before him. There was a snap of the whip, a plunge of the horses, and for something like the time designated they fairly flew through the darkness, from the Rue Royale to the Avenue de Sceaux, and down St. Miche to the Boulevard de la Reine. When they finally crossed the second Avenue St. Antoine, Claude drew a deep breath.
"We are nearly there," he said.